


Wonderful Things

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Dating, Fluff, M/M, Museums, Romance, almost as romantic as their actual weekend seemed to be, this is so soppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-02-01 06:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21423667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: Jean-Éric places his hand palm-down on the table, sliding it forward to the centre without looking, his gaze still caught up in the blur of the rain on the window, the lives beyond. His breath hitches at the feel of André’s fingertips touching his own, barely there even though Jean-Éric swears he can feel it like an electric current through his whole body.---A museum date.
Relationships: André Lotterer/Jean-Eric Vergne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Wonderful Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is the soppiest thing I've written in ages, what has happened to me!

There’s something about being with André that makes all of Jean-Éric's carefully constructed defences blow away like dust in the wind, the tumbleweed of his anxiety – an old friend by now – twisting out of sight at the glimpse of a smile cast in his direction. 

It feels different, too, being in the vast playground of London rather than in Paris, where he feels the ghosts of his childhood hopes and teenage fumbles are always lurking behind one street corner or other, where his flat in St Germain houses the family he could have had. 

He wants Lorene. That has never been up for debate really, yet he wants André more, all-consuming in intensity. When they’re together like this it feels as though anything is possible, every touch laced with a euphoria he normally associates only with winning. 

André smiles at him again, cheeks dimpling behind his raised coffee cup that he sips from now, cappuccino froth dampening his lips. Jean-Éric takes a sip of his own, licking the sweetness of the chocolate from his lips instead of kissing it from André’s; the setting too public, too risky. 

He sighs, wondering, _ wanting_. Beneath the table André’s sneakered foot finds the inside of his ankle, rubbing gently, a little _ I know _ without words. Jean-Éric glances away, out the window of the cafe at the procession of buses edging slowly along Brompton Road, tourists huddled beneath umbrellas taking up too much space on the pavement, hurrying to or from the museums. The weather makes it so much darker than it should be at this time of the afternoon, festive lights wrapped around every lamppost reflecting into the puddles below. 

Jean-Éric places his hand palm-down on the table, sliding it forward to the centre without looking, his gaze still caught up in the blur of the rain on the window, the lives beyond. His breath hitches at the feel of André’s fingertips touching his own, barely there even though Jean-Éric swears he can feel it like an electric current through his whole body. He parts his fingers in invitation but the coffee machine cuts through the silence of their moment and the longed for hand-hold doesn’t come, André sitting back in his chair instead, eyeing up a slice of carrot cake carried past on a tray. 

_ I want to spend the break with you _ Jean-Éric rehearses in his head. 

_ Hey, we should do something over the holidays. _More casual, better maybe? 

_ I want to wake up with you on Christmas _– what he really wants to say. He opens his mouth to get the words out but “shall we head to the museum?” is what comes out instead. 

  
  


They walk arm in arm, sharing an umbrella angled to shield them from anyone who might recognise them as much as from the rain. Jean-Éric imagines this being for real, for always, existing long into the future after they’ve both retired and no longer have the convenience of being in the same paddock to be able to fuck. He’s not complaining about the times he’s dropped to his knees in the cramped drivers’ room at the back of the garage, hurried and frantic with need to taste and touch, to hear André moan his name, there’ll always be space for that, but there’s something about this that he craves too, the simplicity of a real date. It feels important in a way he can’t quite explain and would feel stupid trying to put into words to André. 

They pause at the crossing on Exhibition Road, waiting for the lights to change. Across the street the white brightness of the skating rink in front of the Natural History Museum gleams through the fairy-lit trees, the cinnamon scent of mulled wine rich on the wind. Jean-Éric glances around, split-second thinking before pressing his lips chastely to the cool skin of André’s cheek. For a moment he fears repercussions, but André just turns and gives Jev a look that makes him shiver, makes his heart clench and his knees weaken. 

“You’re a soppy idiot, you know,” André chastises as they cross the road, but his tone is light and he squeezes Jean-Éric’s arm with all the affection he so often struggles to voice.  
  


The V&A is vast and cavernous, floor after floor of rooms filled with everything imaginable, some of them quiet and peaceful away from the throng of people congregating around the ground floor shop and major exhibitions. They pause on the way to the exhibition entrance, Jean-Éric’s eye caught by one of the light installations. _ Forever Love_, the caption on the wall says. He takes out his phone and snaps a picture of the text, uploading it to his Instagram stories and then taking another of André, just to keep for himself, shaking his head in disbelief at himself. The thing is, he’d never really imagined it would be like this, the intensity of his affection making him feel almost full, like he doesn’t even know how to contain it. How is he even standing here beside André without touching him, when all he wants is to take André’s hand and kiss him, to tell every single person in the museum who he belongs to? 

"Love you," he whispers in André’s ear, just managing to resist the urge to slide an arm around his waist, to kiss him and demonstrate just how much. _ You too_, André mouths back at him, going to stand in front of one of the interactive light installations, raising his hands so the lights behind him mimic his movements, creating a shimmer of wings behind him. Jean-Éric films it on his phone, dazedly happy at the laughter falling from André’s lips, the look of contentment in his eyes. André’s sweater rises up a little with his motion, revealing a sliver of skin above the waistband of his soft grey slacks that makes Jean-Éric’s mouth water. 

The exhibition itself is an extensive retrospective of the photographer's work across several rooms, familiar faces of models and celebrities seen through a unique eye interspersed with more intriguing images that hold Jean-Éric’s attention for longer. The two of them linger in a room titled _ Box of Delights, _the walls drenched in a pattern of pink blossom and each photograph a miniature world within itself. In one of them an almost ethereal semi naked model is captured dancing in a garden of strange plastic flowers, his semi naked body a sculpture to rival that of the strange crumbling statues also occupying the frame. Emboldened by the lack of other visitors in that particular room so close to the museum’s closing time, Jev slips his hand into André’s as they stand before the pictures, rewarded with a soft squeeze and the gentle swipe of André’s thumb over the back of his hand. 

“These are nice,” André comments with a raised eyebrow in another room titled _ The Land of the Living Men_, standing behind Jean-Éric and pressing up against him to demonstrate just how _ nice. _Jean-Éric can feel a blush creeping up his neck as he leans back to rub against André, feeling his own dick stir at the feel of André’s semi-erect cock pressing against his arse. 

“Gorgeous,” Jean-Éric agrees, sighing contentedly as André slips his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Jean-Éric’s shoulder as the two of them study the photograph of two beautiful men lying naked in a wildflower meadow on a summer afternoon, eyeing each other with barely concealed desire. 

“I think we could do this and look hotter though,” André comments conversationally, his breath warm on Jean-Éric’s neck. “I want to photograph you like this, maybe on your car. Borrow some of Carl’s glitter paint and cover you in it.” 

Jean-Éric whimpers softly, caught in the fantasy of being so wanted, so desired that André would even make him into art. “I’d let you,” he whispers, “I’d let you do whatever you wanted.” 

It scares him but he knows he means it as soon as the words leave his mouth. 

“I know,” André replies, his voice thick with emotion, and then another couple of people enter the room and André steps away, leaving Jean-Éric bereft at the loss of contact. 

  
  
The rain has stopped by the time they walk out through the bookshop and the long corridors of the sculpture galleries, exiting onto streets busy with families making their way towards the tube. Jean-Éric toys with the idea of suggesting dinner somewhere but the chill of the wind and the idea of being in public and unable to touch are enough to make him think twice. Instead they agree on ordering takeout, their steps unconsciously quickening even though the walk back to Jean-Éric's flat doesn't take more than ten minutes. 

His umbrella clatters to the floor as soon as the front door shuts behind them, André shoving him against the wall in the hallway and claiming his mouth, the two of them clutching at each other. Jean-Éric parts his lips, allowing André to lick into his mouth properly with a desperation that has been simmering between them all day. Their fingers reach for each other's belts, pulling at coats and sweaters that seemed so essential out in the damp cold air of the street below but now are nothing more than an annoyance, a barrier to being able to touch and taste. 

"Fuck, Jev" André breaks the kiss to moan, as Jean-Éric's hands find their way inside André's underwear, stroking him firmly for a moment before turning around to face the wall, crossing his arms and leaning his face on them. 

"Get the lube," Jev instructs, regretfully at the thought of even the delay the few seconds of André going to the bedroom will take. He breathes deeply, still trembling, his mind racing ahead to tomorrow, to André leaving for the airport, to the knowledge that the next time they'll see each other will be Riyadh. He thinks about the Cartier bag stashed in the wardrobe, the rose gold love bracelet that matches his own sitting snugly in the box inside it, his birthday gift to André. If people see it, if they know what it means, then they'll figure it out, Jean-Éric knows, realising that he doesn't mind, doesn't care. 

He hopes more than anything that André won't mind either. Then the touch of cool slick fingers parting his arse cheeks halts his thoughts and he lets everything fly away except for the feel of André surrounding him, filling his body, filling his heart. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The exhibition referenced is Wonderful Things by Tim Walker, currently at the V&A


End file.
